


Five Cons That Didn't Quite Go As Planned

by AndreaLyn



Category: Hustle, Leverage
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five encounters that Mickey Bricks' crew had with Nate Ford's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Cons That Didn't Quite Go As Planned

_i._  
  
Two hands go for the same alarm system at the same time. One of them is clad in thick sunglasses and the other is named ‘Roberto’ in a denim worksuit and a dangerous gleam in his eye. It’s one of the most advanced pieces of technology of its kind and it’s on display in Chicago for a very limited time. Hardison’s there because they need it in order to set up new offices. ‘Roberto’ seems like he’s ready to wield a wrench to make sure no one else gets at it.   
  
“Hey, man, I have to take this out back and repair it,” Hardison insists, trying to play it all nice, play it cool, try to play it so that Roberto doesn’t reach into that toolbox of his and pry out a wrench that Hardison’s starting to worry  _really does exist_.   
  
Roberto looks at him with a dubious look in his eye. “The machinery’s self-repairing,” he informs Hardison without a speck of Latino to him. Actually, Hardison’s pretty sure that he’s from Sophie’s homeland, what with the chipper-cheerio he’s got going on. “So I’ll just take it back, seeing as it’s been recalled.”   
  
“This is the third generation model,” Hardison counters, getting a bit tetchy what with people trying to gank his  _stuff_. Not his stuff yet, but it’s going to be. “The second gens were recalled due to a lot of explosions in the whole facial area.”   
  
Both of them have their hands on the piece and now Roberto is looking at Hardison like he’s about to pry out a weapon and do something about it.   
  
“Alright, fine,” he snaps. “I’ll give you three grand for it.”  
  
“No way,” Hardison scoffs. “Those are like dollar bills to me. I will give you  _ten_  grand to let go of it.”  
  
“Chump change,” Roberto sneers in turn. “This little piece is going to help me get four million American. You let me do that, I’ll hand-deliver it to you. Gift wrapped.”  
  
“Okay, say I do give it to you…” Hardison begins. “First off, you’re giving me your real name because there is  _no_  way on God’s pretty green earth down here that you’re a representative of the proud Spanish people. If I  _do_  give it to you, how exactly are you planning to get around the tripwire alarm?”  
  
“Oh, that’s easy,” he breezily notes. “How about this, mate? How about I use it, then you use it, then we have a good time framing some ne’er-do-well we can’t stand?”  
  
Hardison’s starting to  _like_  this guy.  
  
“I have to know a man’s name before I get to working with him. Call me old-fashioned.”  
  
“Then call me Ash Morgan.”  
  
“…no shit,” Hardison lets out a laugh. “You. You’re  _famous_. You’re amazing.” And a lot older than he thought the man would be, but there’s no reason to go and be rude. It takes exactly thirty seconds for Ash to get the trip-wire taken care of and Hardison’s hitching the device under his arm like it’s any old thing while he gestures to the door. “C’mon, lemme buy you a beer. I know this great place with a nice set of lofts just upstairs…”  
  
*  
  
 _ii._  
  
“We were here first.”  
  
“I understand,” Mickey says smoothly as he takes a leisurely and long sip of his orange juice, allowing the moment to draw out longer than before. “However, you have to understand that I’ve brought my crew a great distance and we have a relationship with the client. Not only that, but I’m afraid all our groundwork has been laid in.”  
  
“Your mark has personally bankrupted our client and I’m afraid that a promise has been made,” Nate argues as he stares at a glass of whiskey sitting just a foot to the left before bringing his attention back to Mickey, signaling the bartender for a glass of water.  
  
They sit in the awkward silence that overwhelms even the most powerful men and wait for the other to break.   
  
“Now, what would you say if I were to suggest that we temporarily join forces?” Nate finally offers, taking the fall and bringing the silence to an end. “I would have to insist that the money goes to the family,” he quickly adds as Mickey opens his mouth to speak. “It’s just our crew’s rules.”  
  
Mickey seems to take his time thinking about that. Nate knows that disinterest is the best way to go in these circles. You give, you take, and you act like you couldn’t care an iota about anything or else there’s something to be used against you.   
  
“The mark, if I’m not mistaken,” Mickey begins slowly, “has been conned before and has taken that particular offense as a challenge to become one of the meanest sons of bitches this side of the Atlantic?”  
  
“Basically. Yes,” Nate agrees with a nod of his head, sipping at his water and unable to help the mild disappointment that it’s still just water. Water in a glass from a bar, of course, but still just water.   
  
Mickey seems to consider that for a long while and finally extends a hand. “We like a challenge. And we suppose that one little pro bono task can’t hurt. Just, don’t mention it to Danny, if that’s at all possible.”  
  
“Which one is Danny?”   
  
“Oh,” Mickey sighs. “You’ll know.”   
  
*  
  
 _iii._  
  
Eliot  _loathes_  short-con artists to his very core. He especially hates the ones that are all talk, the ones who think that they’ve got some gift from God that means they can just blabber away. It’s probably his fault that he punched the guy right in the face, but after having his wallet lifted and then an old-school con being played on him, he’d done it. He just hates that Nate’s gone and made him feel bad about doing harm to ‘innocent people’ to the point that he’s sitting with the guy he punched in the ER of a hospital.  
  
“That’s my face,” the blond man is complaining for the  _hundredth_  time. “I’m a popular man, I’m a bloody commodity! This face, my face, this is the face that sells ice to eskimoes and diamonds to … well, rich women who already have enough diamonds, the point is that my face is synonymous with beauty and you have ruined it with your hands. I should sue you, I should.”   
  
“Yeah, well, here’s a bright idea. Don’t try and steal my money,” Eliot grunts.   
  
“In my defense, you had a wad of it sticking right out,” the man argues.   
  
“I was coming from a job.”  
  
“Your job gives you that much money all wrapped up in a convenient bank wrapper?” the man asks dubiously. “Nice try.”  
  
Eliot takes a deep breath and stares up at the ceiling as he counts to ten and wiggles the earpiece around, begging under his breath for someone to go ahead and  _die_  already just so he can get away from this  _idiot_. “Come on,” he hisses over the frequency.   
  
“Sorry, Eliot,” Sophie finally responds, sounding like she’s trying to muffle laughs. “But there is no way I’m bored enough to engage Danny Blue in an argument.”   
  
“I can’t believe,” Danny Blue is still complaining, “that you hit my face.”  
  
“If you don’t shut up in the next five seconds, I’m gonna do it again,” Eliot warns.   
  
*  
  
 _iv._    
  
“Yes, yes, zis is a beautiful piece,  _oui_ , la piece de resistance! We shall be by to make you an offer, of course,” the woman near him trills with delight at the painting, fanning herself in abject delight. She seems to be experiencing apoplectic fits of joy at how much she likes it when she turns mid-fan and catches his eye. “Oh, but you must excuse me,” she informs the docent. “Christopher, my dear!”   
  
“Katherine!” Albert replies with delight. “Katherine, what a pleasure to see you and so soon after our last encounter.”  
  
He offers her his arm and she takes it and together they stroll the length of the museum.   
  
“What piece?”  
  
“Oh, you know,” she comments, French accent dismissed for a far more natural English one. “Just a little Monet worth four million or so. Nothing that big.”   
  
“Do you have a buyer?”  
  
“This one’s for my personal collection. And what are you doing here, Albert! I’ll be very put out if you’re working a con and you didn’t think to give me a phone call,” she notes, making a  _moue_  of her lips and turning a sulky pout his way.   
  
Albert chuckles warmly, rubbing her palm lightly with his hand. “Don’t you worry Sophie, my dear. With Michael in jail, I’ve been relegated to working whatever cons I can to keep myself afloat. Art galleries are a  _wonderful_  place to pick a mark.”  
  
“Don’t I know it,” she half-purrs, wiggling slightly and adjusting her already low-cut top. “Come on, you have to at least let me help you out. It’s been _ages_  since we last worked together!”  
  
“Well, just this once,” he allows. “After all, who am I to resist Miss Sophie Devereaux?”  
  
“No one has,” Sophie remarks in delighted agreement. “Now. If you promise to call up that fixer of yours, we can be on course by this evening and I’ll even sell a little bauble off to make it worth your while.”  
  
Albert presses a hand to his heart. “My dear,” he reprimands lightly. “The thieving is what makes it worth the while.”   
  
*  
  
 _v._  
  
Parker jumps and falls with nothing more than a wire attached.   
  
Stacie jumps to gain her momentum and starts to ascend, her wire running parallel to the first.   
  
They meet halfway up the building.   
  
“What are you doing here?” Parker demands bluntly, panic starting to rise in her throat as she stares down at the line and hopes it isn’t tangled up in some stranger’s who’s wearing the same high-end top-of-the-line black thief-wear that Parker had bought for top dollars. Okay, not ‘bought’, but she’d procured it in a store.   
  
“Me!” Stacie says, grasping for her rope and holding on tightly. “You jumped off the building!”  
  
“I jumped off a building, you’re climbing up it,” Parker replies evenly. “Yours is weirder than mine.” She reaches out and grabs hold of Stacie’s rope to use as leverage because Nate has actually taught her a thing or two and she’s really not an idiot. “Tell me what’s going on before I clip you.”   
  
“I’d fall and die!” Stacie protests.   
  
“Which is why you should tell me!” Parker agrees, as sweetly as she could -- which apparently isn’t very sweet at all and kind of ends up being more terrifying.  
  
“There’s a ruby and I need it by the end of business hours for personal reasons,” Stacie explains.   
  
“Really? Cuz I just stole a sapphire,” Parker informs her and opens her coat to show off her prize piece. “Hey, you want help?” she suggests. She doesn’t usually work  _with_  people, but she kind of likes the idea of breaking into the same exhibit for a second time and doing a second grab and run. No one’s ever done it, at least, not until  _them_. “I’m Parker, by the way. Where’d you get your gear?”  
  
“Oh, just, you know,” Stacie says as she exhales and pushes her bangs off her forehead, “got a little discount that I can count on one hand. Stacie.”  
  
Parker lets go of the rope and adjusts her gear so that she can retract and ascend to the roof.  
  
“Last one to the top doesn’t get to make a run at the emerald,” is all Parker challenges before she’s ascending into the sky like an angel speeding home and Stacie is left in the shadows trying to reclaim time. 


End file.
